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The winners will be receiving an email with instructions regarding how to claim their prizes shortly. A big THANKS to everyone who participated in this contest -- there were a lot of amazing submissions and picking winners was no easy task.

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The submission period closed on October 14th and today voting commences! Read through the top ten stories below and vote on the one that gives you chills and reignites your childish fear of the dark, ghosts, and ghouls.

He came to with a jolt in a dark room. It was freezing, he couldn't feel his toes. He couldn't move at all actually. Something was holding him down.

“Wha-? What's going on?” he thought fighting against whatever was holding him down. He was so groggy and his head was throbbing. Suddenly a loud thump pierced the silence. More banging sounds echoed throughout the room. Footsteps! Someone was coming!

“Help!”

“Help me please!” He yelled.

“I can't move...where am I?” He pleaded.

If only he could turn his head. It was so dark and the shadow was moving toward him. Suddenly a flash of light bounced across the room. He looked down at his restraints..there weren't any. His blood curdling scream echoed through the room.

His feet were gone..his legs too. Clean up to the knee. He reached to touch them and two stumps moved instead. “My arms where are my arms?!” He sobbed violently.

"Oh relax, we are almost done "came a voice by his head. A young girl was standing over him, a half smile on her lips. A stabbing pain rushed through his body as she sliced his skin over and over. She stared into his eyes as his blood pooled around his lifeless body dripping into the bucket below him. A man walked out clapping slowly.

“Beautiful, great job honey” he said looking at her work. He helped her clean up the mess and throw the body in a hidden space in the floor. They put a top on the bucket of blood and he carried it up the stairs. “Do I get to make the soup this time, daddy?” She asked as she walked behind him to into the kitchen of the deli.

It all happened so fast--there she was in bed with somebody else. He demanded to know why. She laughed. He reached for the gun.

Bang, bang.

Two for his wife, two for her lover.

Bang, bang.

Of course, by the time the deed was done his rage had plummeted into a state of pure and utter panic. He took the bodies and buried them in the woods out behind the RV, and then he took off driving into the night, headed who knows where as long as it was away from the scene of the crime.

But it was nothing so clean, nothing so perfect, because even though he'd physically gotten away she was everywhere. He saw her out of the corner of his eye, just out of sight. Not so out of mind.

And then one night he awoke from a dream and saw her standing there at the foot of his bed, her fury illuminated by slanted rays of moonlight through the shuttered window. For a moment he thought he was still dreaming, until she reached for the gun and pulled the trigger.

My daughter finds it hard to fall asleep at bedtime; more often than not, she is up until ten. I suppose that wouldn’t be so bad, but she is only four and she should be sleeping much more. But it never really bothered me, I stay up rather late as well, and with her near me I have someone else to talk to.

Sometimes we have some wild discussions about aliens, horses of all kinds (some with wings some with horns, the kinds of horses all little girls dream about), but tonight we were talking about monsters. This struck me as a little odd because she never wanted to talk about anything scary, and the kind of monsters she was talking about were rather frightening to me. For whatever reason she thought up this monster with jagged teeth to rip into flesh, it had scales like a fish, slimy and tough, like the armor of an armadillo. But that wasn’t the scariest part, that honor was giving to what it will do to its prey.

This monster will stalk you for a while, perhaps even get you to trust it, then attack. When I asked my daughter how that happens, she couldn’t think of an answer. Maybe it was because she was still young and couldn’t think of how to manipulate people that well yet. But, regardless I was happy she couldn’t think of one.

She had fallen asleep at ten-fifteen, which was lucky for me because she started to freak me out with all that monster talk. I picked her up and carried her off to bed. But my eyes widen when I was about to lay her down, she was already in bed. I looked down at the child I was carrying, its eyes were open and black.

Death stains an unmissable ambiance whenever its been fabricated by transfixing our desires. Planning suffering for another can sometimes be more painful for the entity, then that of its participant. It's the waiting. Finding the right "one", watching, learning, gaining trust. These take time, but are necessary. Simply stealing a little girls soul isn't enough after you've taken a few hundred. You need the art of manipulation if you want to find true satisfaction. It's rather enjoyable once you master it. Breaking her spirit is easy. Once you have control, you can began creating suffering in those closet to her. Its like a drug, thats the difficult part. Finding the balance of control, between your endless thirst and their fragile lives isn't easy. You want a long relationship with your victims. Their terror will only increase as the enslavement of their child slowly progresses into something beyond understanding. Thats what scares humans the most. What they don't understand. You could simply slam a door, or flicker the light and they instantly become frightened. But tasting the uncontrollable fear they manifest as they watch their own child use a knife to carve a language they can't read into her skin. Then misunderstanding the false appearance of their frightened and confused little girl regaining herself. "Mommy Daddy please help me I'm . . . I'm scared. I can't think clearly anymore. I can't control my thoughts anymore. I . . . I, don't want to close my eyes again. Don't let me close my eyes again!" Thats my favorite part. So what do you suppose I like to make her do next? I'm not a monster, of course I'll peel off her eyelids, I wouldn't want her to be unable to see what she's going to do to her parents after all.

Heather awoke. The short, featureless silhouette of her daughter stood in the bedroom doorway ."What is it now, Bianca?" Heather mumbled with more annoyance than her five-year-old deserved. But Heather was exhausted - she rarely got more than five hours sleep a night between taking care of Bianca, Thomas, and her husband and waitressing at the café. Why couldn't they see that? Why wouldn't they help out?

"Tuck me in."

The fog of sleep began to lift from Heather's mind. Something felt wrong. "I already did twice." Heather sat up careful not to disturb her husband sleeping next to her.

"You did it too tight."

A chill ran up Heather's spine. She tried to focus on her daughter's face but it was too dark to see. "I'm really tired, Bianca."

"Daddy would!" Bianca pouted.

"Shh! Don't wake daddy. I'm coming."

Heather swung her legs out of bed. The callouses on her feet stung when they touched the cold floor. She turned on her lamp and saw the blood - her nightgown was covered.

Now she remembered.

"Mom, I want a glass of water."

And there was her son, Tommy. He stood next to her, hands clasped behind his back and butt stuck against the wall. Her beautiful family melted her heart. But she had done it anyway.

Sarah lay in her bed, alone for the first time in three years. Her old tomcat, Scratch, purred at her feet. A sense of calm, something that'd evaded her for so long, had finally settled upon her. The voices from her youth, the ones that spoke to her only when she was alone (and sometimes threatened her), were imaginary. She knew that now. The therapists and her parents had convinced her.

Tonight, she was ready to be alone. "Go out." She told her parents convincingly. "Have fun. I'm ready for this."

It would be their first date night in a long time. After all their dedication to her, and always making sure that she wasn't alone, they deserved a good time. She didn't expect that the voices would return, but she was ready to ignore them if they did.

Perhaps thirty minutes after they left, the first whispers sounded in her ear. "We missed you, Sarah. Come be with us."

She laughed and returned to her book. She was strong, she could handle it. They were only imaginary.

The voices got louder. "It's time. You've been gone too long."

Sarah showed no concern. She'd spent many hours role playing this exact scenario with her therapist. She turned the page of her book and continued reading.

A final, single voice rang out loudly. "Tonight, you will join us."

It sounded as if it'd come from down the hallway, but that wasn't uncommon with these voices. Her book dropped as she began to chuckle at the ridiculousness of the situation, but the laugh was halted before it ever left her throat. At the end of the bed, Scratch was sitting up. His ears were back, and he was looking out the bedroom doorway.

Amongst the dark spirits and beasts that prey upon man, tis I who is the vilest of them all. Nevertheless, man embraces me above all others. No need have I to impose my will or possess man’s body to do my bidding. Thou offer thyself freely to me, absent of all reservation and without hesitation. Abandon me, I will damn thy soul. Reject me, thou will be shunned and scorned. Thou see eternal life and heavenly rewards within me, but deception is all I offer. I am the voice in the silence of unanswered prayers. I am the healing thou seek when death and disease embrace thy children. I am the signs in the heavens and stars thou see as warnings of omens in future days to come. I am the reason thou condemns thine neighbor to Hell in the name of love.

Alas, do not despair, for I am not without benevolence or kindness. I giveth thee strength to overcome thy fear of the unknown. I give thee sight to see past tragedy and misfortunes. I provide comfort from the sound of death’s inevitable approach. Nonetheless take heed, for millions of thy brothers and sisters have lost their lives in my name. Wickedness, sin, and destruction follow in my path. I turn fathers against sons and daughters against mothers. Every god must kneel before me, for I grant them their power and are the chains that bind man’s soul to Heaven and Hell.

From the beginning, my kind has dwelt amongst man. Daemons populate thy history in abundance and have been given many names. I have one name, one holy name thou exalts above all others. Summon me and I will come. Calleth upon me and abandon thy logic and reason of mind. Speaketh my name; surrender unto Faith.

Every time someone new comes over, they compliment my dad on the hardwood floor. The boards are straight and perfectly placed. The dark color catches highlights from the lamps in every room, from the bathrooms to the den to the kitchen. Dad always grins and thanks them. He says his grandfather laid it in by hand. That we stain it every year and keep it polished best we can.

It’s a real legacy, Dad says, a memory from the past and something that will stick around for way longer than he will. All we have to do is take care of it.

And we do.

It’s a big deal. Every Memorial Day, we move the furniture out and spend days hand-coating each board. It takes a lot of stain, and the whole house reeks for a week afterward, but it really does make a difference, especially with the fresh wax on top. It gleams when we’re done, and Dad always claps my brother and I on the shoulder and tells us how proud his granddad would be to see us taking an interest in a family tradition.

This year, I’m in charge of going to get the stain while everyone else gets the house ready. I have to go a couple states over and it’s tricky to find the right area. You have to be so careful to pick the ones no one will miss. It’s not as hard to string them upside down and slit their throats, as long as you have the buckets ready. It takes gallons and gallons to get that rich color just right through the whole house. Every drop counts.

An old man’s voice whispers advice as I pick up a knife. My hands don’t shake. It is, after all, a family tradition.

"A man once lived. He was a practical man. He had a house and children. He never really paid attention to them often. One night, he drove too fast whlie one of his children, a boy, had no buckle on yet. The child died when it crashed. The father went on as usual after. Every day, he would feel unplesent looking outside toward the accident. He did not know why. One time after looking outside in his kitchen at 3:15 AM, he noticed a figure. It was his son. He was in terror while he saw it. All of the sudden, it vanished. It was now very quiet. He continued to look outside. Then, all of the sudden, he felt a cold hand run from his lower leg up. It grabbed his ear and said,'Do you love me now?' He turned around to see his son's eyes and mouth getting wider and wider untill it ripped his rotten flesh and his eye jelly leaked. He screamed and ran outside. When he did, he was confused and afraid, so he ran across the street. Right when he did, he was hit by a car. He passed away that night. He spirit now has been pushed out of his former home. He can never return." "Wow! Nice scary story! how did you make that up?" said a teenager talking to his teacher. He responded slowly while slowly turning his head toward him with a smashed-in forhead whlie it leaked brain fluid. "I didn't." He then vaporized into nothingness.